May The Force Be Ever In Your Favor
by Sivad Ttarp
Summary: Book one of the Force Games. A hundred years after the Empire's victory at Endor, a yearly event is conducted in memorial for the victims of the Galactic Civil War. Each year, fifty children from across the galaxy are selected to battle to the death in an arena of the Empire's design. For one odd girl from Tattooine, the Games may be just the chance she needs to change her destiny.
1. Prologue

The Force Games

By Sivad Ttarp

Prologue to the Force Games:

"And now, young Skywalker, you will die."

Emperor Palpatine's arms tingled as if pricked by thousands of needles as pure negative energy poured from his fingers, taking the form of blue electric lightning.

Luke Skywalker's screams echoed through the cavernous throne room.

It really was better this way, Palpatine decided, regarding the black-clad, blonde-haired, young man prostate on the floor beside the shaft leading to the main planetoid frame of the Death Star II below.

"Father, please," the boy choked, contorting in pain as the blue current flowed through his body. The sparks reflected of the mirrored black surface of Darth Vader's armor. Luke's father's labored breathing was the only sign the Sith Lord was not a statue.

Luke was not his father, Palpatine decided; he would not have been turned so fully, so satisfactorily. There was resemblance to be sure: their strength in the force, their knack for technology and vehicular daring, their sense of honor and self-righteousness. But Anakin had come to him freshly seasoned with doubt, confusion, and fear. A life of poverty and pain suddenly elevated and exposed like a raw nerve to all the myriad philosophies and confusions of a galaxy in turmoil. The result was blinding, and Anakin sought meaning that could not be found in the passion of love with a certain Senator from Naboo and control the Jedi's code could not offer. Luke shared none of these things; he had a stability Anakin never had. Palpatine supposed he had ultimately had Obi-Wan Kenobi to thank for that. He'd turned the boy into a force of hope, and not Palpatine's hope.

Darth Sidious intensified the severity of his attack. Luke Skywalker was a liability, too dangerous to be allowed to live. Unfortunately, someone disagreed.

"NOOOOO!" the shout alerted Palpatine just in time, as his broken apprentice launched into action. Palpatine spun on the lumbering knight, propelling a fistful of force lightning into his chest plate. A scream more mechanical than human resounded from the armor as Darth Vader collapsed in a steaming heat. The smell of burnt flesh was sweet in Palpatine's nostrils.

Palpatine felt a tremor in the force; Luke was reaching out, attempting to draw his own emerald bladed lightsaber to him. A fighter to the very end. Palpatine knocked it away with a flick of his wrist and a manipulation of the force. He then unleashed another blast of lightning. This time there was no one to stop him.

Luke's back arched as he hovered inches above the floor, surrounded by blue light. Energy still pouring off him, Palpatine walked slowly toward the boy, looking impartially into his face. Luke's eyes filled with blood as his heart popped.

Palpatine flicked his wrist again, tossing the corpse into the shaft. He didn't bother to watch it fall.

He bent to pick up Luke Skywalker's lightsaber hilt from where it lay. It wasn't a poorly made weapon, for a beginner.

The only sound in the room was now the rasp of mechanically assisted breathing. Lord Vader.

"Do you still live even now, little Annie," Palpatine chuckled. "You never could learn when to die." Vader did not reply, perhaps he could not. No matter.

Palpatine activated the lightsaber. The green blade arched down. A black helmet rolled away from the body. Palpatine allowed his old and perhaps dearest friend a moment of reverence, before bringing the lightsaber down again and again. Just to make sure.

Alarms began to blare. Palpatine knew what had occurred. Their little confrontation had turned his attentions from the larger battle. Even now the Rebel Alliance ships were assaulting his battle station. He also knew there was a comfortable shuttle awaiting him in the hanger below. They might not succeed in exploiting the station's weaknesses, but Palpatine wasn't confident. It was better to be safe than sorry.

He entered the elevator. The ship shook as it began to descend (Palpatine drew on the force should he need to protect himself if the shaft became compromised). He felt refreshed. Usually events came together by design, but sometimes it was for the better that they did not. He was through with Skywalkers. Or at least he would be once he saw to the death of one Leia Organa.

Palpatine had always considered himself a game-master. The universe was his to control, his only true opponent the limitations of his capabilities. Perhaps it was time for a change. No more fooling around with new apprentices and sentimental sith traditions and this pathetic Galactic Civil War. Yes, this was a situation he could most certainly change in his favor.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter one:

The trigger gives easily beneath my finger. I spin into an alcove as blasterfire scorches the wall behind me. My shot went wild, didn't connect. No matter, I suck in my gut; try to disappear into the wall behind me.

I've been in fights before, worse ones. Fear and cowardice are one thing, but strategy is another.

There are two of us and two of them. Hardly fair odds. Our favor.

Galen holds his blaster like an expert. It's bigger than mine, all blocky sights and battery packs. Such is the nature of customization. I like mine small and simple, so I can carry it in my boot.

The air crackles as Galen fires. One of the two punks screams, the larger more imposing one. The Zabrak falls against the wall with a crater in his gut.

Galen dodges, mimes almost dropping his pistol as the younger gangbanger fires wildly at him. He's angry, his face a mask of rage. The dead punk was probably his brother. I could see the resemblance. They were both pathetic. Galen retreats, firing far over the kids head. I almost laugh, it's too funny. The kid bites. He charges.

And I'm out of my alcove and in the air, jumping. I always was a good jumper, I just kick off and I can keep going farther than anyone I know. Wins me handfuls of credits now and then. Anyway, I ram right into the kid, knocking him on his back. I grab his wrist and slam it against the ground. His blaster skitters away on the rocky floor of the alley.

"You know what you did wrong," I say, looking him right in the eye. He struggles, but I have the advantage. He goes slack when he sees my knife.

He nods. He's even younger than I thought. Not as young as me, but still a kid really. (I'm sixteen.)

"Good," I say. "Spread the word." My shank goes in nice and easy. In a few seconds he's crying and screaming and most importantly bleeding all over.

I stand up; rub the sand from my eyes. I walk over to Galen. His mouth is slightly open, showing his teeth. He's looks just a little shocked. It's a normal look for him. I pat his check. My hands are still bloody. I trace a long line down the skin.

He jerks away; looks like he's might vomit. "I hate it when you do that."

I laugh and stick my tongue out. I can still hear the kid screaming, but it fades to the distance as I tune it out.

Galen looks good in red.

…

Smoke curls around my head, drifting up into the darkness. It feels good to get out of the twin suns. I'm accustomed to their heat and rays, everyone who's lived on Tatooine becomes so quickly, but it doesn't mean I don't get a headache from time to time.

I can hear things, all the time, all around me. Sometimes it becomes too much, it overwhelms. The smoke soothes that, numbs my senses. It gives me solace.

"Kara," Galen asks "Did you really need to kill that kid?" There is a touch of concern in his brown eyes. Wasted energy on his part. What happens, happens.

"I didn't kill him," I say. "I know how to cut a Zabrak. They need to know it belongs to us." The Jayze rule Mos Espa. It's mine. My people's.

"Yeah," he shrugs, and takes a long drag. "I guess so. Just making sure someone will be able to deliver the message after all."

Neither of us speak. I gaze at Galen. He's human, like me. We almost look alike. We've the same build, tall and lean. He's just a year or two my senior. His hair is dark brown, with bangs that hang over his brow. I'm blonde, my hair barely reaches my shoulders, but I tie it back regardless, to keep it out of the way.

They take us for a couple sometimes, the others in the gang, people on the street, even my mother. We're together so often, but it's not like that. I think it's not like that. Galen is my mentor, like an older brother. He's taught me all he knows, I mean everything to him. It's not that we haven't experimented; we've touched from time to time. He's simply so awkward about it. He's confused about how he feels about me. I let him. It feels funny, sensual yet familial emotion. I breathe in once more, and even as I do the feelings I sense from him dull.

"Well, this is it," he says, almost bitterly. "My last chance."

"Chance for what?" I ask, though I can guess what he's talking about.

"To be chosen," he says, "The reaping."

"Is that today?"

"You know full well it's today," he glares at me for being a smart-aleck. "My last year. With my luck I'll probably be chosen."

"What if it was the two of us?" I ask, fully conscious of the smile I form: friendly and relaxed, showing I feel safe with him, and just a little bit sexy, implying that I'd like him to help me feel even safer. I find amusement in his reaction.

"If it was, and suddenly I almost wish it was, then we would win." He says. "We'd show them all. We'd make it. No more conning freighter pilots or cheating at cards or pickpocketing or fighting with Walkers. It would be money and luxury and power and everything we want. We wouldn't have to answer to anyone."

"Except the Empire, of course," I say.

"Of course," he admitted, "Everyone answers to the Empire."

"Besides," I say. "There's only one winner."

"True," he said. "A few more weeks and then we'll know who is, how do they say it these days, who is fortunate and who is dead."

"I'd say the odds are in our favor," I say. It's a lie of course, but he'll think it's a sweet one. He's so easy to play.

…

Despite cheerful holonet broadcasts to the contrary, the reaping is always a solemn affair, at least on Tatooine. People across the planet, across the galaxy even, were watching and hoping. Hoping it wouldn't be them or anyone they cared about or even knew. Unfortunately, the Empire believes in what they call random selection. Anyone can be chosen (anyone of age). Even if you avoid the census and the random blood tests, and don't use credits and don't have a police record they can still find you. Part of being all knowing, I suppose.

Its mere moments now before the broadcast. No one is smiling.

We join the crowd, are swallowed up by the mass of people throughout the square. I keep close to Galen, and nibble of a fruit he stole for me from a passing market stand. So sweet. The fruit, that is.

They stand around the crowd, covering every corner. Stormtroopers, their white armor spotless, clutching black state-of-the-art rifles. I imagine what the Jayze would do (and occasionally did) for equipment like that. Not that I would be stupid enough to try anything here. They are ready, their orders full of contingencies. I'm sure any disturbance would be enough to put an energy bolt in my back.

We could all watch the broadcast in our own homes or perhaps the local cantina if we were particularly technologically impaired, but yet these people still chose to gather together in the open air, as one body, a whole prepared to sacrifice a portion of itself to a higher power. Galen liked (well, I'm not sure liked is the word) to watch the reaping like this, with all the other people. It gives him a feeling of togetherness, a camaraderie with his fellow citizens of the galaxy. Me, I just think the huge high-definition holoscreen looming over us gives much better video quality.

Surprisingly, through the crowd of people, spacers and moisture farmers, I see my family. My mother Miram Evenstern and my little sister Primith. I give Galen a pat on the shoulder and let him know where I'm going before I push and weave my way through the crowd toward them.

My mother is happy to see me, she hugs me close. She gets a little hysterical at the reaping. I suppose that's understandable, as a parent with a daughter eligible for selection.

Primith looks like a younger version of me, except my little sister is trembling. I put an arm around her as well. "What's wrong, little one?" I ask quietly.

She doesn't speak, looks down at her feet.

"It's her first year," my mother says. "She's of age."

Oh, that would do it. I'd forgotten.

No wonder she looks so strained. My mother adores Primith. Me, I'm the lost cause.

I turned to the gang when I was ten. It would've happened earlier, if they'd accepted me, taken me instead of leaving me in an alley with my pride bruised at best and at worst a few broken ribs. It was Galen that did it, finally. He stood up for me, talked about my determination and spunk. He was right; I was a scrappy little thing.

It just went on from there, it became my life. The fights, the jobs, the drugs, the sex. My mother didn't approve, most mildly traditionalist mothers wouldn't after all, but she couldn't argue with the money.

We'd never been well off. I never knew my father. My mother said there'd been a good man in her life before my stepfather. I hoped that was true, for her sake. My stepfather had been a real bastard. She still turned out okay, the sweetest, kindest person I know, looks so innocent and so much younger than her twelve years with the twin blond braids running down her back.

My mother got a job, a steady one, waiting at a cantina. Honest secure work, but it wasn't enough, not for the three of us. We struggled and nearly drowned. The Empire spouts on about its free economy (regulated of course) but all I see is slavery that doesn't care about anything in your pants except your wallet. So when I started bringing home credits, it didn't take her long to start using them.

We'd had our little talks, our spats, but we have an unspoken agreement, my mother and I. She doesn't pry into my affairs. She doesn't know where I go during the day, and she doesn't comment that I only sleep at home every three or four nights. She tries to ignore the blood on my clothes. In return, I keep the money coming. With her job and the allowance from me, we're both able to keep Primith fed, housed, clothed, and in school. More than can be said for most lower class children these days.

Oh, and one more thing. I keep what I do out of the house. I know Primith knows, but I never talk about it. I never introduce her to anyone or anything from my world. She's so…pure. I don't want to mar.

My mother thinks it's a survival instinct, the gang, only to protect my family. She's wrong. I don't know what love is, just like sadness, joy, anger. I understand the concepts, use them to communicate, but they don't compute, they make no sense. There is only existence. I care for my family as in I provide for them. It gives me purpose, an ongoing goal to strive for.

The gang may provide that goal, but day to day life, the running, the conning, that's where I find meaning. I find _feeling_. I joined the Jayze for myself. There was no sacrifice. There is nothing more to it.

The massive screen flickers into life, the Imperial seal against a grey background. The Imperial anthem crackles to an acceptable volume. All horns and cymbals, militaristic and just a little ominous. The symbol and music fade away to be replaced by an image of the star studded blackness of space.

"A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away," a clear computerized masculine voice relates. "War expanded across the galaxy." A massive space battle came into view or the digital representation of one at least. Lengthy warships battered each other with concussive shells as smaller fighters dodged and whizzed between, zapping each other with lasers. A silvery planet hangs below the fighting. All the ships are antiques; I recognize them from the limited number of historical holoprograms I've seen in my life.

"The aged, decrepit and corrupt republic fell to pieces under the threat of the treacherous Confederacy of Independent Systems." I watched another battle play out, in the dust of a world of red sand. Stormtroopers (wearing armor slightly different than the modern streamlined variety) charged a line of robotic soldiers. Blasterfire went everywhere. I saw a beam of light through the sandstorm, and then another. Men and women in robes, swinging glowing blades: lightsabers. Interesting. I'd seen variations on this film before, every few reapings or so, but never this one, never one this…comprehensive.

"A hero rose, chosen by destiny to save the universe. A humble senator from a charming yet backward monarchial world. His name was Palpatine." A man in a hooded red robe is shown from behind. He raises his arms to meet the massive senate body before him. "Palpatine's honor, kindness and goodwill gained him the seat of Supreme Chancellor of the Republic, and by his actions and strength in time of crisis the bloody Clone Wars were brought to a close."

Onscreen, night falls across a skyline of massive silvery spires. Coruscant, I think. "Yet all was not well, for the sickness of disloyalty manifested in the Separatists penetrated the heart of the Republics oldest tradition. The arcane and mystical peacekeeping core, the Jedi Order had plotted to use this conflict to manipulate events in their favor, to seize power and dominion over the Republic."

"Fortunately, Palpatine discovered their treachery before it was too late. With the help of Darth Vader, a young man he had saved from the Jedi's evil path, he purged their treachery from the galaxy." A young man with a lightsaber is shown leading and army of Stormtroopers against and army of Jedi in a cavernous antechamber. I am sure he is intended to cut quite the heroic figure.

"The Galactic Empire was formed, with Palpatine as its Emperor. By his side, his chief enforcer Darth Vader," Palpatine (I assume) is shown again from behind, now dressed in black, an imposing caped figure in shiny black armor beside him. Together they look into the vastness of space through the main viewport on the bridge of a warship. "Together with a government and military of courageous individuals they would lead the Galaxy into the light.

"Yet, where order strives to bring peace there come those who oppose it." I watch another space battle, the Empire against another, significantly more ragtag, fleet. "The Rebel Alliance, a terrorist, anarchist group, formed by cutthroats, led by honor-less traitors, and championed by Luke Skywalker, heir to the evil tradition of the near extinct Jedi."

The Rebel fleet breaks through the defenses, moving in on a moon-sized space station. "Eventually, Skywalker's ruthlessness brought him the confrontation he'd longed for. Palpatine was forced to defend himself and his people in person. Their battle was titanic, made all the more so by the betrayal of Darth Vader. The son he'd never had was seduced by Skywalker's manipulations of his tragic past and the great lie of the force. But as is always the eventuality, good triumphed over evil, and Palpatine defeated both his foremost foe and his former friend."

A shuttle is shown escaping from the inferno as the battle station is destroyed. "The Empire and its ideal has spread to encompass even the most outer systems. The Rebel Alliance was eventually defeated and driven out of existence, but the threat of what they represent will always linger.

"And so it was decreed," more scenes of Coruscant, the Imperial citadel, with emphasis on the upturned faces of youths, male and female. "To commemorate the meaningless and tragic deaths of billions in the two wars the Emperor has witnessed. So that this Empire, this collective whole, will never forget, and never again make those deadly mistakes. That each year from twenty-five randomly selected planets within the known galaxy, one young man and one young woman between the ages of twelve and eighteen are selected to compete in a contest of skills both physical and mental, a battle for their lives. To the victor go untold riches and glory unlimited, not to mention the Emperor's personal interest, to show the generosity and peaceable nature of our society. In warning of the evils of superstitions and religion, this great event is known as The Force Games. It is our greatest pledge, our promise to never let the fury of war stain the stars again."

A last showing of the Imperial seal, and then fadeout. The history lesson is over. In its place is a stern middle-aged woman wearing a drab green uniform, seated before a view screen set into a silver metal wall. Her silver hair is pulled back into a tight bun, and her lips are pursed so tightly you can barely tell she has them. I recognize her; she is Grand Moff Frea Trentiss. She's the regional governor of our greater sector, and she has a reputation for fairness, especially where the Empire is concerned. I would take her for a strong woman, being the only female Grand Moff counts for something to most people (yes the Empire is very sexist, not to mention their human preferences). She's certainly not merciful, not by a long shot. Maybe she doesn't want so show weakness. Maybe she just sees it as pointless; and if so we have more in common than I believe we do. I don't relish the thought.

"Hello Tatooine," she says evenly. "I have difficulty following this historical media presentation, and so shall simply proceed with the reaping instead of offering any of my customary words of wisdom." Actually, she moves straight on the reaping every single year.

"Now for our tributes, the young…adults who will represent your planet and bring glory to our home sector. First, the ladies." She snaps her fingers and the viewscreen behind her flickers to life, a name fades into view, along with a photograph from some surveillance droid.

Trentiss reads. "Primith Evenstern."

I blink.

I was not expecting this. Admittedly, I'd forgotten it was even a possibility till a few minutes ago, so it couldn't have factored into my plans.

There is a gulp, half a sob. It's my mother I think. Primith is silent, staring, her mouth slightly open. Her hands hang limp at her sides. Oddly, I wonder if her palms are sweaty. Mine aren't.

The people around us back away, silent, watching. Old spacers and peasant families, just grateful their daughter will live to see another year. My mom is crying into my shoulder, I look around curiously. I can't see Galen, but I can hear his voice in my mind. _What if it was us? _

The recording of Trentiss is calling the boy now. I'm not listening; I don't even look at his picture. I'm just thinking. Luxury, riches, a chance to see the galaxy. Power, fortune, glory. For one winner, not for every loser. I can fight alright. I'm smart, I can jump. What teenager has the galaxy got that are more formidable than Tatooine's gangster trash?

The men in white armor stand head and shoulders over most of the crowd as they stride toward us. Blasters ready for any resistance. People run every year. Primith isn't running, she can't move. But my mom might fight, swing her thin arms. I'd rather she didn't get shot.

I'd rather not watch Primith get killed on live broadcast for that matter. I'm used to them both the way they are, mom and Primith. I don't want their place in my world to change.

The stormtroopers surround us. Blasters are leveled at my chest, not to mention Primith and my mother behind me.

"No," I say aloud.

"Stand aside, citizen," the trooper grunts, gesturing with his gun.

"No."

"What is that?"

"I said no," I say. "I'll take her place. I volunteer. I volunteer as tribute."


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Stormtroopers really are intimidating, once you get to know them.

Half a dozen of the armored troops surround me; isolate me from my mother, my sister, everyone else around. I look for Galen in the crowd but I don't see him. The white-armored solders lead me into a nearby building, a blocky affair of gray metal. An Imperial building, and a militaristic one at that. I suppose they don't want to take any risks with the tributes. For one of them to be hurt or killed before they were put into the arena to be hurt or killed would be nothing short of mildly embarrassing.

My heart is pounding in my ears. I can barely believe what I just did. This is the second where everything changes. Has my whole life been leading up to this? No, I don't believe in destiny. Only choices. I made the best choice I possibly could have if I'd wanted a change in my life. But I had been secure, so this choice would only be worthwhile if it could make me more secure. How likely is that, really, considering I was going to fight fifty others to death. With those odds, there is bound to be someone more lethal than I am. What was I thinking? (_No one_ is more lethal than I am.)

I am searched thoroughly. I've been thoroughly searched before, by Jayze and Walkers both. But with gangs it always comes back to one thing. The Stormtroopers keep it uniform. You'd think there was nothing remotely sexual about feeling around inside my bra, the way they carry on about it.

It makes me feel uncomfortable.

I can't make out anything behind their black eye-slits in their ghoulish white faces. Are they men or women? The armor isn't very busty. Are they human? I've always assumed they are, what with the Empire's human preference (they say the Galaxy's non-human population drops by a few hundred lives every day), but you can't really tell.

In the end I get no answers (I ask no questions) and they take my blaster, my knife and the little bag of white pills I was saving in the toe of my boot for a metaphorical rainy day (real rainy days never happen on Tatooine; maybe I'll see the rain someday, maybe that's why I take those pills).

After they're done running their cold gloved fingers up and down my body, I'm taken to another room. It has a low ceiling and pale green couches around the walls. There's an oil painting of a local canyon and rock formation on the far wall. I'm seated on the couch and left, although I know the troopers are standing just outside the doors.

There's one other person in the room, a boy about my age. He's human, with fair skin, and an athletic build. His dark blond hair hangs over bright blue eyes, set into an unblemished face with a narrow chin. He wears simple peasant clothing, boots, brown trousers, and a loose white tunic and his shoulders are hunched as he stares at the floor. He looks dazed, but not too dazed to be afraid.

This must be the other tribute from Tatooine, the boy. I should say something, I feel, something clever and nice. Something that will endear me to him, make him look on me positively. Enemies have their place, it's hard to get anything you want without making a few, but people who think they are my ally are so much more useful. Galen is a case in point.

"Hi, I'm Kara," I say, putting a cheerful tone in my voice and mannerisms. Not eloquent or original, but suitable perhaps. He doesn't answer, doesn't acknowledge me. I consider trying again. Then the door opens, stormtroopers enter and they have people with them.

I stand to greet my mother and my sister too. My mother sweeps me into a big hug. "Thank you," she whispers, "Thank you so much." Why wouldn't she? I've saved her favorite daughter.

We pull apart, she holds me at the arms, her eyes are wet. "You'll try to win," she says, "You'll do your best?"

"Of course I will," I say. This is the truth. "I'll miss you so much," I say. "I'll think of you the whole time." This is the lie.

Primith tugs on my shirt, I kneel so I'm looking up at her. I'm only four years older, but I'm still much bigger than she is. Her eyes are red, she's been crying too, though she isn't now. "You'll come back," she says it like it's a fact, not a question or a plea.

"Yes," I agree, "I promise." I don't like giving my word; it seems like such a commitment. But this time, today, with Primith, I do promise.

"Take care of her," I tell my mother, "I need you to take care of her, the best care. Keep her safe; teach her what she needs to know. Otherwise this will be a waste on my part."

"I will," says my mother, and then she promises too.

We hug again. They need to hug me, feel me, so they can remember me. I do not protest. I feel like in a split-second, the story of my life has changed directions. It deserves this much recognition.

The stormtroopers come in and pull us apart. The stormtrooper explains to me "The tributes are allowed two visits, one for family members, one for their significant other."

The door opens again, and they push in another individual. My significant other? I'm not aware I have one.

Oh, of course. It's Galen. He swoops me up in a hug, like my mother, but it's a lot more sensual of one. Not to mention that he kisses me, pressing his lips to side of my mouth, not trying to see if I want it or not. I let him, allow my lips to link with his till we pull apart.

He, for one, while obviously concerned, does not seem to have cried. I'm glad about that.

"Damn you," is the first thing he says. "You went and did it, you volunteered."

"My sister…" I shrug.

"I know you, that's not all there is to it. But most importantly you're going to win, so you can come back and I can see you again."

"Yes," I say, and I mean it more this time.

"You know what to do," he says, "I'm no veteran, I don't have advice. But your vicious, you're a fighter. If there's one girl who can fight and kill forty-nine other teenagers from across the galaxy it's you."

"And I don't even plan to take them all on at once," I say.

"There you go, you already have it made," he says. "Oh, I have something for you. I was carving wood the other day and I made this, and I think you ought to have it." He presses the snippet of wood into my hand.

It's a small rectangle, designed to be hung on a necklace. I recognized the design etched into the darkened wood, I've written it onto enough buildings in my time. A simple shape with a rounded bottom and three prongs on top. It's my gang's symbol, the Jayz insignia. I'm not sure where it came from, if it means anything, but it's certainly made an impact on my life.

"Thank you, I'll keep it with me the whole time," I slip it into my pocket.

"You've always been lucky," he says, "Hopefully this will help."

"I just hope my luck hasn't run out," I say. Then, since I see the stormtroopers reentering, "Miss you."

He tries to kiss me again, but just tease him one last time I move my head so he kisses my forehead, not my lips. Then Galen is gone and I am alone again.

Almost alone.

"Do you not have family?" I ask the tribute boy. He's sat there this whole time. He glares at me briefly, then looks back at the floor. If he doesn't have family, that's interesting. If he also doesn't have a significant other, that's something I can use.

The door opens again, and I am surprised to see Grand Moff Frea Trentiss, who enters flanked by more elite troops. She's every bit as prim and straight-backed in person.

"Congratulations," she says, shaking my head. "You've certainly set yourself ahead of the crowd, Kara, volunteering in your sister's stead like that. You must care for her a lot."

"I must, must I," I say, not wholly content with the level of intimacy she seems to be showing. If she was a lower ranking Jayz member I would consider breaking her nose.

"And our boy," Trentiss moves on to the other tribute, "Perrin Mallek. Already unremarkable and ordinary compared to young Kara Evenstern."

Perrin thinks about saying something, but decides against it. He just shakes her hand even more limply than I.

"This way, you two," says Trentiss. She leads back into the hall, and the company of stormtroopers closes around us again. I can feel the wooden snippet in my pocket against my leg. It feels good, like a little piece of individuality.

"It's certainly an interesting mix this year," says Trentiss conversationally.

"Of tributes?" Perrin speaks for the first time, his curiosity finally getting the better of his depression.

"Quite," says Trentiss. "As Force Games go, this one should be quite diverting. I doubt either of you will last very long, although you don't exactly look like useless cannon fodder either. We shall see, anything can happen I suppose. I wish you luck."

"I'm going to win," I don't like her attitude. "I'm going to…win it for my sister, yeah that's right."

"Good luck dear," says Trentiss. "Just remember there are forty-nine other children who have exactly the same goal."

"Forty-eight," says Perrin. "I don't have a sister."

Trentiss smiles, "I think I'm going to like you two."

I've already chosen to loathe her. For me, it is a conscious choice. I don't feel much of anything about anyone unless I really think about it.

I say nothing more. They take us to a hanger bay. There are assorted ships and speeders of various types, all imperial issue. Droids and mechanics bustle around, servicing the machines. We are lead to a sleek, tri-winged, Imperial shuttle. Trentiss's, most likely.

Unlike most Imperial ships (from what I've heard) it is designed for comfort as well as function. A pilot and technician take their place in the cockpit, while we enter a lounge area. There are low couches, and a bar in the corner. A pair of stormtroopers stand at the door, while I, Trentiss, and Perrin sit. We sit as far from each other as possible.

I've never been in a space ship before. I've only ridden a few speeders, which are not nearly as immersive or technologically impressive. I've even helped steal a couple, but the Jayz prefer swoop bikes. Much easier to hide, and generally easier to dismantle. There are a lot of swoop-riding gang kids around, people who won't ask where their parts are coming from.

It is silent for a few moments. Perrin asks "When are we going to leave."

Trentiss gives a single laugh, "We already have," she says.

I realize when I focus I can feel a buzzing vibration in the floor under my feet and the seat beneath me. My ears feel different, like the liquid deep inside is sloshed around in a way I'm not accustomed too. I begin to get a headache. That's not something normal for me. I go over to the bar, and pour a glass of water. I'm half-nervous the stormtroopers will shoot me in the back, but they don't. Out of the corner of my eye, I do notice them tightening their grip on their weapons. Best not try anything.

I sit back down, and slowly drink the entire glass. A serving of water this cool and clean was hard to come by on Tatooine, especially outside of the moisture farming profession. Trentiss and her like would hardly bat an eye. If you could be decadent, then why not do so? I supposed that was the Empire's argument. Excess was comfortable to the individual, and a sign of power to everyone else.

Perrin keeps looking jealously at my drink, but he couldn't quite bring himself to get up and brave the stormtroopers to get one.

We land. It hadn't been a long trip. I had supposed the shuttle had docked with a larger Imperial ship orbiting the planet. I was correct in that.

We exit the shuttle to another hanger. It was more spacious than the last, and more of the technicians were armored, stormtroopers in white and pilots in black. The other ships, interspersed with some assault walkers and bikes, were almost entirely aggressive in nature.

"Welcome to the Star Destroyer _Keshya_," says Trentiss. "We'll reach Coruscant and the Tribute academy, your home away from home for the next two weeks, soon."

"How long will the journey take?" Perrin asks.

Trentiss ignores him completely, and instead nods to a low-ranking Imperial officer in olive-drab uniform. "See that they're shown to their rooms." To us, she says, "Get some rest; we'll come for you in a few hours. You will meet your stylist and be made presentable for arrival. The tribute's first main exposure to public opinion, other than the reaping I suppose, is the tribute parade upon our arrival. I trust you to make a good impression, for your own sake and mine."

"But you aren't our mentor," I say finally.

"True," she says, "But as the Grand Moff of this sector, your performance reflects upon me as well."

"Don't you have other planets in this sector with tributes?" Perrin asks.

"Sometimes I have multiple tributes," says Trentiss. "But not this year, thanks to the wonders of random selection. Hence my particular attentiveness to the pair of you. Now, run along. I'm not a walking guidebook, I have things to do."

The conversation was over. The nervous man in the uniform led us away, accompanied by our usual complement of stormtroopers. He didn't speak to us at all, let alone answer our questions.

…

If I'd known I'd been taking one now, I wouldn't have showered earlier.

My room was nice, almost as big as my entire house back on Tatooine. I doubted the general crew barracks were as luxurious as mine. They were treating the tributes nicely, fitted for the slaughter as they were. What a waste. Except in my case, I was going to win.

The refresher was luxurious, and the bed soft, though I couldn't bring myself to sleep. What I really wanted now was a window. I'd never been in space before. I want to see what it looks like for myself.

True to form, they arrived for me right on time. Another official (a different one) and the compliment of guards. The sheer amount of security that had been placed on me seemed overbearing, but I supposed that any tribute was considered inherently dangerous, even if they had yet to realize it themselves.

My guards stayed outside the room I was lead to. Within I am met by a trio of stylists. They introduce themselves as my prep team, the group of cosmetic experts assigned to make me look my best throughout the pre-games events. They are not in Imperial uniform, but dressed in more decadent Coruscant wear (although practical, as they're at work), the likes of which I've never seen in person. I take note; clothing is, after all, as much a status symbol and personal statement as a protective covering. They are Clayn, a Bothan male (who wears a crimson suitcoat over a yellow waistcoat and tan trousers), Morse, an Ithirian male (who wears a robe of glimmering emerald, made from some silky and most likely expensive cloth which shimmers in the light) and Iris, a human female (who wears a red jumpsuit with a sloping neckline, showing the curves of her breasts, her hair is done in a complicated geometric pile, and gemstones hang from her ears).

The first thing I do is take a shower. As has been my strategy so far, I don't resist (it would be counterproductive, my goal is to win the games themselves). My Tatooine clothing disappears; I doubt I'll be seeing it again. As in my quarters, I'm amazed by the sheer amount of water coming out of the faucet. I'm used to water as a commodity, far too valuable to be used for anything less than ingestion, especially for a family of my social standing. I enjoy the sensation; it's a sensual pleasure, made more so by my awareness of how much liquid life I'm wasting.

My prep team watches, which doesn't bother me so much. I care little about nudity compared to most people. My body just is what it is, it's pointless to both avoid and seek out nudity, a waste of time and effort.

There is foamy soap; they let me wash myself, while Morse takes notes on a data pad. They occasionally give me pointers, like to focus more on washing my hair. They are right, it's full of sand. The shower isn't short, although I wouldn't have minded staying there longer. My comfort just isn't the object here, work is. After exiting, I step into a sonic shower as well. I'm more familiar with these (I used one once when we broke into this middle-class guys house). It finishes the job I started, and dries me as well.

The prep team really gets to work after that, removing my hair, excepting that on my head, with this waxy stuff. It hurts mildly when they pull it off, and my skin feels weird once it's gone. The Bothan takes my measurements while the others steal my hair. I figure after that we'd move on to makeup and perhaps a dress fitting (I've never worn a dress before, and this looked like my chance), but I am a bit premature. Instead I'm propelled, naked and shivering, into an adjoining room.

If the last room reminded me of a workshop, this one is more of an office, with a desk in the corner. There are electronic drawing pads all over it, with a serious of variant clothing designs, and even some actual cloth (all of it more expensive than anything I'd ever owned, let alone worn) spilling out of the drawers.

There is a blue man standing while he works at one of the sketch pads, waiting for me. A fat twi'lek, perhaps the oldest Twi'lek I'd even seen (most of the ones you see around Moss Espa are hookers, which looked about as much as this man as Perrin looked like Trentiss). He wears surprisingly plain clothes, all black under a long brown robe.

"Please," he gestures, "Feel free to dress." There's a robe, I realize, long and white. So, now they actually talk to me. Pretend to see me as anything more than a passing slab of meat. It's only fair, that's all I've chosen to feel about my prep team.

"No," I say. "I'm good. What now?"

"By all means, let us be civilized," he says, his voice rich bass. "You're shivering."

"I'm perfectly comfortable," I lie, crossing my arms over my stomach (below my breasts), I enjoy watching his eyes flicker around the room, looking at everything except me.

"Well…feel free to take a seat," he sighs. I perch on the end of a nearby stool. My toes dangle inches above the floor.

"My name is Chrona," he introduces himself, tapping away at a datapad. "So you're Kara? Lovely name, lovely girl; your measurements seem to be accurate. Fortunantly, your body type and coloring are a good fit to the sort of designs I was leaning toward." He coughs somewhat awkwardly.

"Have you done this before?" I ask, contrasting his awkwardness to the rest of the team's senselessness.

"I've been a foremost designer of Imperial fashion for years," he states, "I've worked on dress uniforms, I've worked on evening wear, I've worked on-"

"I mean for the games."

"No. This is my first opportunity."

That explained it.

"When we arrive tomorrow," he said, "You will join the other tributes in your parade to the training academy. This will be your first formal public appearance, it's vital you make a good impression."

"Yes, I've heard," I say. I decide to sweeten him up with a little praise, "With such a fine designer I'm sure I won't have any problem with that."

"You're too kind," I can't tell whether or not he flushed. "Some people, other than you apparently, think clothing is important. As most of the tributes will likely be human, and since most of you look very similar to each other, your style of dress will be vital in announcing your status and degree of separation from the average tribute. Generally, the stylist bases his tributes costumes on the planet of their origin. It's become something of a tradition."

"So…desert?" I ask.

"Usually," he says. "But I don't want to do that. I don't like deserts. I want something more original. I think I have something that'll really be the highlight of the night, so to speak."

"Can I see it?" I ask.

"No spoilers," he says, "And I haven't finished making it. Until this point you and Mr. Mallek had yet to be selected, or volunteer, as tributes. Now that I'm able, cough, see the nature of your anatomy, I can easily fit your clothing. Don't worry, it'll be ready. You are to return to your room. We'll meet and get you ready once the time comes to dock. You are dismissed."

I head toward the door.

"And Ms. Evenstern," he calls, and I glance back. "You really might want to take that robe with you now."


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3:

It's not a huge difference, being on a planet again. But at the same time, the air has a different taste. There's less buzzing in the floor beneath my feet.

Coruscant; the city planet, the capitol not only of the Empire, but of the entire galaxy. From all I'd seen so far, it looked exactly like a hanger bay. Perrin and I had come down in another windowless shuttle, but without Trentiss this time. We'd only had more Stormtroopers for company.

I close my eyes as Iris pats a little more makeup of my face with a puffy piece of foam. I resist the urge to wipe my eyes. "Does she even need this," she asks her boss.

"Better safe than sorry," Chrona is pacing a few yards of way, safely out of reach. "Do get her hair tied back," he orders.

Clayn pulls my hair back into a tighter bun than I've ever made myself, so tight it hurts. I can hear Perrin choking on his own blush as Morse attends to him.

All around us are people. Droids clamoring to and fro, guards and officials. Stylists surround other teenagers, who are dressed in a variety of formal robes, gowns and uniforms. The other tributes. I fail to get a good look at them, since whenever I open my eyes, I risk getting them filled with makeup.

"I thought our outfits were supposed to be, you know, elegant," Perrin said.

"Shut up, boy," Morse snapped.

We are both dressed in black jumpsuits, mine clings to me like a second skin, so formfitting I'm not allowed to wear anything under it. It covers my feet and hands, there's even a mask I'm not wearing yet, meant to fit over our entire head.

Chrona looks slightly nervous, as he glances around. A human girl passes, flanked by her teams. I don't care much for fancy clothes, but even I think her shimmering sapphire gown is gorgeous. Her stylist wants her to be scene. Our look is unique, but makes us look like were hiding from an impression, instead of trying to make one. "It'll work," he says. "There's more to it than this. You'll see. I just don't want to spoil the surprise."

They help us put our masks on, until our entire bodies are covered. I can barely see through the fabric, but I sort of feel everything around me, so it's all good.

Chrona and the prep team wish us luck, as the group presses us toward the speeders. These vehicles will proudly display each pair of tributes (one speeder for each planet) as they proceed toward the training academy, where we will spend the rest of our time before the games begin.

"I think my designs will be surprising," Chrona says to us finally, "Make an impression on the viewers. They also might alarm you, so I absolutely promise you that whatever happens in regard to your clothing, you are perfectly safe. Please try and remain calm."

"That seems a little over the top," Perrin mutters under his breath, as Chrona and our team hurry away from the speeder, as it merges into the queue The parade has already begun. Ahead, I see speeders exiting the hanger through an elaborate pair of hanger doors, with a glimpse of the night sky outside every time they glided open and shut.

The speeders were bronze and flattened, shaped like an oval. Each pilot was hidden from view within a cockpit below us (if there even was a pilot, it could have just as easily been a droid). The tributes stood atop the roof of this speeder, assisted by a sparse railing.

The line moved quickly, there were about thirty seconds between exits. Directly in front of us was a pair of Rodian tributes, dressed in blue and pink finery (respective to their genders). Perrin kept glancing back behind us. We were right in front of the Twi'leks, I realize. The boy was a hulking brute, and the girl a well-endowed beauty with the body of a dancer and a dress to fit the most prolific variety of that occupation.

Only a few uncomfortable moments later, we were outside. I do my best not to blink. I've heard stories of Coruscant, seen a few pictures, but it doesn't compare. It's like the mountains and canyons out on the edges of the desert, only manmade, everything metal. Skyscrapers lit by a thousand lights stand side by side and try to tower over each other.

Our path has been cleared, I can see the next speeder several yards ahead, the Rodian couple smiling and waving. In the distance I glimpse more speeders than I've ever seen in my life, rushing past in multiple currents of airborne traffic.

The sky above us is gray and foggy, the air chilling and acrid compared to what I'm used to. I shiver. Our speeder sets a leisurely pace, but the wind still feels my eyes, and I'm aware of the huge distance between us and the ground far below. I clench the railing so hard my fingers hurt. Perrin looks just as sick.

It doesn't help when we burst into flames.

We both scream. My first instinct is to stop, drop and roll right off the speeder. But I remember what Chrona said. The flames don't burn me; they don't even give off heat. They do not ignite the speeder in any way; they only play off our rubbery black second skin.

I put a hand on Perrin's arm, to reassure him. "I think this is what Chrona meant," I shout over the engine and the flames. "Let it be."

"I just hope they work alright," Perrin hunches. He's shaking. I might be too.

The parade doesn't take long. Small hover droids, fitted with cameras, flit around to catch every angle of the tributes. I glimpse myself on a massive building mounted viewscreen to the side. It's a very impressive effect; we are two shadows, wreathed in flames. Thanks to our similar build, you can barely tell which one of us is the male or female tribute.

Before long, the training academy comes into view. It's a large box-like complex, with a central spire as tall as the other sky scrapers, with a smaller tower at each corner of the square.

We glide calmly down toward a hanger bay set into the roof of the square complex, before the tower. Our flames die down as we come in for a landing, so much that they've disappeared once we stop in the hanger, parking off the a side in the next space in a row of like-minded vehicles.

It's a lot like the hanger we just left, technicians and assistants bustling around, telling the tributes what to do and where to go. As usual, there's a generous smattering of guards and Stormtroopers about.

I reach to pull off my mask and fumble with the fitting. Perrin helps me, and I do the same for him.

"Perrin, Kara," says a womanly voice. "An excellent performance, I am truly impressed. I must know the name of your stylist."

"It's Chrona," says Perrin, as the pair of us climb down from the speeder.

The speaker is a perky human female, almost young enough to be a tribute herself. She's dressed in a gray suit and carries a datapad. Her blonde hair is tied back in a ponytail. While she's not in a military uniform, there's an imperial pin on her lapel.

"My name is Osca, Osca Trentiss," she says, greeting us graciously. A feeling of excitement drips from her. She's happy to be here. More than that, she's happy to simply exist. She loves what she's doing. Also, I sense she truly is impressed by us. "I'll be working with you and managing your time while you're here, until, you know. There's not much need for schedules in the arena I guess," she laughs briefly.

"Trentiss?" Perrin asks. "Like the Grand Moff."

"My aunt," said Osca. "You're lucky you met her, most tributes don't get someone that high ranking."

"Well, lucky by some standards," I whispered to Perrin, who ignored me.  
I felt something of a chill on the back of my neck, the way I felt when someone was watching me. Someone who didn't mean me any kindness. I turned my head and met his eyes. Across the aisle, a Zabrak with copper-colored skin, wearing a black robe that showed a lot of his chiseled chest. He nodded to me, and slowly ran his tongue alone his sharp teeth.

Osca coughed, noticing my attentions. "We'd best get to your suite. We can talk in private. Besides, morning comes early."

…

"Here we see the pair of human tributes from Tatooine, a little desert planet from the outer rim. Though a promising new star on the Coruscant fashion circuit, Twi'lek designer Chrona made his Force Games debut tonight here with what was certainly a shining display. These surprisingly unique outfits protect the wearer while cultivating a live flame to surround them in firestorm. Love or hate it, we certainly have the first memorable moment from the 74th Force Games. Keep watching for more coverage, after a message from the Imperial Navy's recruitment office."

Seeing the figures that are barely recognizable as Perrin and myself from afar gives me a new perspective. Tatooine's tributes were generally dressed in yellow, tan and white clothing, the colors of the desert. Instead, seeing the pair of us together I saw another side of Tatooine. Two burning tributes, two glowing suns. It didn't make me homesick, I didn't really care that much, after all I'd barely been gone and was much too interested in the goings on to muse on the people I'd been around, but it did remind me of the suns themselves, the many nights I'd spent watching them set while I contemplated whose pocket my family's next meal was coming from, and whether or not to find somewhere less restful than home to sleep.

The holo-projector mutes as the entertainment coverage shifts into an army recruitment ad. I recognize we are not alone.

The suite allotted to the Tatooine party is near the top of one of the training academy's four outlying towers. I am once again impressed, this time by the sheer amount of space we are allotted, let alone the luxurious amenities and tasteful decoration. The entirety of my family's apartment could fit in the lounge without so much as brushing the ceiling.

Perrin and I are to share the rooms with Osca and a trio of lower-ranking assistants, who would help Osca run our lives. And our mentor. In the elevator, Osca had explained that, while she would run the logistics of our stay here, we would also have a mentor on hand to council us about the upcoming event. The mentor was a randomly selected victor from the territory of the tributes, who took time out of their government-allotted duties/ life of luxury to give the tributes some guidance.

If a planet had no victor, an alternative mentor would be somehow chosen. I remembered hearing that Tatooine had only one living mentor to its name, but I recalled nothing about the individual in question. Victors supposedly lived long and happy lives, but were absorbed into obscurity by 'top positions' in the empire.

While Osca touches base with her assistants (I think a few of them could have been interns, they were certainly young enough), Perrin and I have approached the hollow feed, entranced by the vision of our idealized selves.

The man sprawled across the couch turns his head around to look at us. "Well you've certainly made an impression, set yourself apart," he says. "They will remember you."

"That's fortunate," says Perrin. "Right?"

"No," says the man. "It isn't. It's a death sentence. Maybe if this really was a popularity contest, you would be fortunate. But it isn't. You don't rely on any sponsors or friends; you are alone in the arena. All your stylist did was paint a big fat bloody target on your chest."

"Oh, does that mean we're dead?" Perrin looked slightly disappointed.

"You were dead the moment you were reaped," the man laughed. "Except maybe that Zabrak kid, he looked like a real beast."

"Oh, this is Vaynich Abril," Osca says to us, joining us at last. "He'll be your mentor for the Force Games. He did win these things once."

Vaynich has a wide face, which matches his wide frame. He's not quite obese, but almost, there's definitely some fat on his belly. He looks to be in his forties. He has medium fair skin, and brown hair that's thinning a little on the top, his jowls are clean shaven. He's a Kiffar, I can tell only by the thin green tattoo striped across the bridge of his nose. I wonder if psychometric powers were much help in the arena. Probably. Meanwhile, the most advanced evolutionary trait we humans had was the Emperor's favoritism, which amounted to nothing in the arena.

"So if we're gonna die, why are you going to help us?" said Perrin.

"Work," says Vaynich. "It's like a yearly paid vacation. I give you some much needed advice, and in return I get to spend a week in an even more luxurious apartment than my own, eat fine food, look at beautiful women, and don't have to review another financial enquiry till the Games are over."

"Sounds like the life of a victor is a comfortable one," I say. "I'll be looking forward to it."

"It beats being dead," Vaynich wagged a finger at me, "Which you probably will be, but now that I see you in person you look like you're a better athlete than half the kids down there."

"I ran around a lot back home," I say. "So when's our first lesson."

"Right now, tonight," says Vaynich. "We eat and rest, and I'll show you by example how to do both. In all serious, you take your meals and naps where you can get them from now on, you never know how long you'll be awake once the games start."

My room is magnificent. My bed is the softest thing I've ever touched. The refresher has a stone tub that could comfortably fit my mother and sister as well as me, and Perrin for good measure (now that would be an intruiging combination). My closets are stocked with all the clothing I'd need. I change into a red shirt and soft black leggings. My flame-enabled jumpsuit is taken by one of the interns, headed back to Chrona no doubt.

Despite Vaynich's advice, I don't eat much at dinner. I'm not hungry. It doesn't help that my mentor eats more of the spread than Perrin, Osca and I put together.

Once I flop into my bed, it's not long till I drift to sleep. It's the best night of sleep I've had in my life, but I still wake up twice out of habit. I doubt there are any Walkers around the training academy, but I guess one can never be too careful.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4:

"Here at the training academy, we have tried to make your final week before the Force Games commence a comfortable and, more importantly, productive one."

On my first morning on Coruscant, Perrin and I eat a quick breakfast with Osca and her assistants (Vaynich is nowhere to be seen). We then join the other tributes in a sort of circular amphitheater. A stern woman in imperial dress, Cari Tlent, Executive of the training academy, addresses us.

"We have the most advanced training equipment," she continues, "And a staff of experts to teach you everything you may need in the arena. I would strongly advise to take advantage of these. All the past victors have.

"Also, I believe we've made it clear the security policies in place here. You will be monitored constantly and will not be permitted to leave. There will be no second chances. It's a pity to lose any tributes before the games; I hope none will be eliminated in advance this year. Thank you. Good luck."

After her words, we are given a quick overview, via video presentation, of the various opportunities and facilities that are available to us, and then released to act accordingly.

Perrin and I both attend a workshop about foraging for food, primarily because it takes place right in the same room we were already sitting around in. There are less than ten tributes in the room. Each of us sits far apart from each other.

The presentation is helpful, even if the girl in charge is overbearingly perky. Since the nature of the arena planet is a secret till the games begin, she speaks about a vast variety of climates and environments, with examples of common edible or poisonous plants and animals from a wide variety of planets. I try to commit them to memory.

We adjourn for a short break, as the holograms disappear. The teacher explains she'll next be speaking on snares and hunting. I put that topic on my to do list (most of my foraging experience has involved direct theft, not little trips for small rodents), but head off before it starts. I think Perrin stays to listen to that part.

Instead, I head for the nearest lift. The nutrition specialist had mentioned that some of the gardens and other areas within the academy had been remodeled to simulate different wild environments from across the galaxy. This sounds interesting.

After consulting a map on the wall, I walk through a door and step into a jungle. I've learned about places like these, but this is new to me. The air is humid; the trees blot out the light and intertwine with their peers to make a maze. The plants are alive, but all the sounds of chattering animals and insects come from speakers far above my head. A fitting reminder that this place isn't real.

But it is interesting. I wander through the jungle, attempting to be stealthy and silent. To little avail, I bump into another tribute before ten minutes have passed. I usually can anticipate people, like I know they're there, when the get close enough to me, but he's a complete surprise.

He also looks dangerous. He's the same zabrak I saw the day before. Dressed in simple black clothes, he's several inches taller than me. We simply look at each other, mere feet apart.

Vaynich said he looked like a victor. He really does. I've got to make him see that I'm the true contender. I reach out and grab his arm, push him away. He doesn't resist.

"You're dead meat," I hiss, my voice a calculated hiss. "I'm the one going home."

He stares.

"Get out of my face." I say, and a seed pod falls onto my head. I barely feel it, but manage to reach out and catch the brown little capsule just the same. The zabrak turns and walks away. He glances back at me as he goes, and there's something in his eyes. Not fear, unfortunately, but something more than bland indifference.

Perhaps I should have thought that through more.

I rub the seed pod between my fingers, and look up to its source. There is a rustling in the tree canopy. I see an agile small figure climb out of sight, one covered with light brown hair. A little wookie girl, the female tribute from Kashyyyk.

I leave quickly, and decide I'd rather not find the arena to be a jungle. Far too much cover.

I spend the rest of the day in the simulated environments, with a break for lunch of course. The cafeteria is generous. I eat a more modest portion than most tributes; I can't really taste the food, so I just let it feel me up. It's no real difference for me, I rarely care about the taste, it's just fuel. My mother found this refreshing, I'd whatever vegetables she demanded without complaint.

The desert area reminds me of Tatooine. A simulated wind whips up, and I saver the sand in my ears and under my fingernails. It feels like the past. It's amazing how far I've come in three days. Across the galaxy in fact. I've done well.

I also visit a snow area, and survive a simulated blizzard by digging an ice cave and starting a fire against the sleet. I saw no other tributes in the desert, but here I glimpse a few. We keep our distance.

At the end of the day I eat, tell Vaynich briefly what I did, and go to bed. I don't speak to Perrin, he keeps his head down. I forget to ask him what he'd been learning. I sleep lightly and well.

The next three days pass in a similar fashion. I immerse myself in the learning the academy has to offer. I get around to that presentation on snares, and attend one about shelter. I spend more time wandering around in the simulated environments, trying to get a feel for anything that isn't a desert. I get to like the ice planet, cold is bracing and snow is interesting, but the jungle and woodlands are deafening, too much life surrounds me.

There's more to the Force Games than wilderness survival. There's the killing too. I train. I lift weights and run. I spar. Not with other tributes, that's not allowed, but with teachers at the academy. I shoot bows, throw knives, and swing staffs. I'm handy with each, especially the knife, but I hold back, especially when other tributes are around. Best not to give away the goods too soon.

No blasters, unfortunantly. Too easy. All the weapons in the Force Games will be little more than sharpened metal. Prolongs the spectacle, I guess, more primal. Whatever.

Perrin is antisocial towards me. Vaynich gives little advice, and Osca's advice is unhelpful. I see other tributes all over, but I keep my distance. I don't try to talk to any of them, not since my encounter with the male Zabrak and the wookie girl.

"Today," Osca says at breakfast, "Each tribute is to appear before a tribunal of judges. You show them a skill, a foremost focus, something like that. They'll then formulate a percentage of how likely you are to prove victorious. Something for the viewers."

"Wait a minute," says Perrin, surprised. "Shouldn't you have told us about this earlier?"

"Settle down child," Vaynich interjects, brandishing his cup of caff. "You've been training all this time haven't you?"

"Also," says Osca quickly, "It can take some time to work through all fifty tributes. The pair of you aren't scheduled till midafternoon."

"So," Perrin says to Vaynich. "We don't see you, except at meals. What advice do you have? Aren't you supposed to mentor? We've talked to a couple of the others and their mentors all give them advice and talk about strategy…"

"And refuse to accept the fact of their immediate death," says Vaynich. "If I even start I'll be getting involved. I'll wonder what I should have said, what I could have done, to save you. Puts me off my food, and gives all you little kids delusions of grandeur. I have to do the whole thing next year too."

"Maybe trying is still, like, morally superior, you know. I mean, I could win. I could get lucky," Perrin says.

Personally I think Vaynich makes a lot of sense. He's just underestimating the human ability to care about things. Hell, I can barely bring myself to blink when one of the Jayz gets shot down, even when it's someone I taught pickpocketing to, but Galen rants and yells every time. People invest so much in their emotions, even when these emotions (from my experience) do them no good.

"Today," Osca says at breakfast, "Each tribute is to appear before a tribunal of judges. You show them a skill, a foremost focus, something like that. They'll then formulate a percentage of how likely you are to prove victorious. Something for the viewers."

"Wait a minute," says Perrin, surprised. "Shouldn't you have told us about this earlier?"

"Settle down child," Vaynich interjects, brandishing his cup of caff. "You've been training all this time haven't you?"

"Also," says Osca quickly, "It can take some time to work through all fifty tributes. The pair of you aren't scheduled till midafternoon."

"So," Perrin says to Vaynich. "We don't see you, except at meals. What advice do you have? Aren't you supposed to mentor? We've talked to a couple of the others and their mentors all give them advice and talk about strategy…"

"And refuse to accept the fact of their immediate death," says Vaynich. "If I even start I'll be getting involved. I'll wonder what I should have said, what I could have done, to save you. Puts me off my food, and gives all you little kids delusions of grandeur. I have to do the whole thing next year too."

"Maybe trying is still, like, morally superior, you know. I mean, I could win. I could get lucky," Perrin says.

Personally I think Vaynich makes a lot of sense. He's just underestimating the human ability to not care about things. Hell, these days I can barely bring myself to blink when one of the Jayz gets shot down, even when it's someone I taught pickpocketing too.

"You want advice, fine," says Vaynich. "The elements are as likely to kill you as the other kids. Find water. You need water to live. You're humans, so humans especially need water to live. Only drink fresh water. You are from Tatooine, so I doubt the sun should bother you too much. Oh, try and stay warm too."

"Can't be much colder than here," Perrin says. "All the metal and elevation…"

"You'd be surprised," Vaynich yawns. "They did a games on Hoth maybe a decade ago. Only about a dozen tributes killed each other, all the rest froze to death. Both my tributes did. Thirty-seventh and thirty-third to perish."

"See, you remembered that statistic. That means you care," said Perrin.

"Shut up, kid."

I do some more marksmanship today. I really have no idea what I'll do in front of the judges. I guess I could do some knife throwing. I sigh, and throw three knives in rapid succession. I hear a gasp behind me, and turn to see a twelve-year old human duck out of sight. I glance at the targets; each knife is embedded deep in the direct center of its circle.

Knife throwing it is.

Perrin is scheduled right after me for judgment, but we arrive at the same time.

"So what are you going to do?" I ask.

"I wish they let me bring Vaynich," Perrin says dryly. "We could argue. They'd give me a hundred percent likelihood of dying in the first two minutes."

"Generous," I said, "I'd only have given you one."

The door opens and it's my turn. I see the last tribute leaving, the male wookie. The pair of Stormtroopers at the door usher me in.

I enter a long, high ceilinged room. A booth is set into the wall, filled with various middle aged men and women (almost entirely human) in Imperial robes. The judges. The room is sparse, but there is rack of weapons along with an assortment of weight training and athletics equipment. There's a humanoid target set into the wall on the other end of the room.

"Kara Evenstern. Tatooine." I announce myself to the judges. I then go to the weapons rack, and select a belt of throwing knives, which I drape over my shoulder. I select one and hurl it. My aim is nearly true, a micrometer off of the dead center of the face.

I glance up at the judges, they watch with bored indifference.

I quickly burn through the rest of the knives. The slash my faux opponent's throat, open his arteries, pierce his heart, sever his testicles. Every blade deals what would have been a devastating to fatal injury.

There is no acknowledgement from above; I realize they're barely even looking at me. Food has been brought in on a silver platter; I hear the dull roar of their conversation and do not bother to differentiate the voices.

They've seen this stuff before, I realize, all day long. I did well, but that's no matter.

I walk to the target and wrench out a knife. Turning on my heel, I hurl it across the room. The knife half turns in midair, as I intend, and the handle clunks against the Stormtroopers helmet.

He shakes his head to clear it, and steps toward me, his weapon lowered at my chest. I may have just signed my death sentence.

"Put that down," I say. "Don't be scared. You people are supposed to be fighting machines. You're wasted guarding children. Prove it."

The Stormtrooper's emotionless helmet twists to look up at the judges. A single mustached man nods in his direction.

The stormtrooper set his blaster rifle down on a nearby table, and steps away from it. We're only meters apart. He falls into a ready stance, I see, balanced. I slouch, it makes me look lithe.

He's clearly trained. But an imperial sort of training. Me, I've been street fighting for years.

He attacks first (of course), a swinging punch. I step aside and drive my fist up into his gut. It bruises my knuckles. His armor protects him well, but decreases his mobility.

His arm chops down against my shoulder and neck. I duck away, winded, and crouch. As he comes at me I jump, driving my heel into his white helmet. He almost loses his balance as I land, and I shove him in the chest with both hands, knocking him back against the table.

His arm stretches out, his hand grabs for the blaster. I shrink back; I don't expect I can hold out long against one of those. Yet something doesn't seem quite right, I don't sense the intent to gun me down on him, only the intent to beat me to a pulp.

It's a ploy; he hurls the gun at me and charges. I duck under the gun, and grab his white-armored arm. He slams into me, but I hook my leg around his. We both go down to the ground, his weight winding me.

I twist out from under him, as he punches me in the gut. I grab the white helmet and twist, slamming his head into the ground again and again. He flails, his vision impaired, hitting and kicking at the air. He manages to grab my arm and squeezes. His first drives into my side, his arm chops down on my forearms, allowing him to tear out of my grip.

He rolls away, his armor clattering. I dart in and kick him while he's down, in the head and torso.

"Enough."

It's the mustached man from above. I turn away from the stormtrooper to look at him. "We will consider you. You may leave." He says.

…

I am interested to see the results. I sit with my assorted companions around the holoscreen in our suite. It's not exactly exciting viewing, watching photos and numbers flash by, accompanied by epic music. I forget almost everyone's ranking.

The ranking administered by the judges represents the percentage that the tribute is likely to win the Force Games. Since there are fifty of us, each of us start with two percent, and this amount is ours to lose or win.

Most tributes get around a two percent, some get a one, some get a three. The wookie girl gets a three. A few of more dangerous tributes get higher numbers, like six or sevens. My male Zabrak friend scores a nine, the highest score I've seen. I also learn his name: Fen.

Perrin's picture appears. He's scored a four. "Good job," says Osca, "That's a great score."

She trails off into silence as I'm displayed. There are two ones beside my name.

"Eleven percent," says Osca reverentially. "That's the highest I've seen so far."

"Great," says Vaynich, "You'll be the first to die. The committee must hate you."

"How so?" I asked, turning around to look at him.

"These numbers, they don't matter," Vaynich shrugged. "It's not like there are any sponsors who can help their favorite child. It just helps those with strategy to prioritize. And they just painted a bloody red target on your pretty little face."


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5:

The tribute training in the Tribute academy is not televised for public viewing. Audiences are instead treated to a series of analysis, Imperial propaganda and highlights from past year's Force Games. There are two pre-game broadcasts. One is the percentage rankings by the judges; the other is a series of interviews, one for each tribute, which are conducted the night before the games.

The ordering is different than with the judges, and Perrin and I are among the last scheduled tributes. We sit with Osca and her interns in the waiting room, watching the speeder traffic outside the windows. Night has already fallen, and the lights of the Coruscant skyline are like a thousand little stars.

Chrona and my prep team have done me over again. My hair has been swept to one side, in a wave that stuck out from my head. I'd thought it was a terrible idea, till I saw that the end result actually looked pretty cool. Like almost every Tatooine stylist before him, Chrona had gone for sand this time, but he still had a few tricks up his sleeve, or up my skirt. I wear flat shoes and a light tan (almost that shade called nude) dress which hugged my torso, but billowed out above my waist. I've never worn a dress before and it's uncomfortable, no matter how long the dress my legs still feel exposed.

I go first, ushered into a studio filled with technicians and recording equipment. There is a desk against a plain, blue-tinged, wall alone one side. The host is already on set. All they need is me.

I sit in an artistic but uncomfortable chair. The host introduces himself as SeesinChek Farl. He's a Troig, with two heads, four arms, and pink-tinged skin. His blue suit is darker than the wall behind us. The right head is named Sees and the left is called Chek.

It turns out Sees asks the questions, and Chek then translates my answers into a few languages more obscure than the traditional galactic basic, like huttese. I wonder how many people in the galaxy really can't understand galactic basic, but we are live before I can ask.

Sees speaks more to the audience than to me. "Now, we finally have the pleasure of introducing to you the first member of the pair of tributes you've all started to recognize as the 'Children on Fire'. She's a human female from the Outer Rim world of Tatooine, Kara Evenstern."

We pause briefly as Chek translates, before Sees begins the interview. "You've never been off your planet till now, have you Kara? What do you think of the Imperial Capital?"

"It's large," I say. "Lots of people. Not a lot of sand."

"Not as many suns either," Sees grins. "Helped you and your compatriot really shine out there in the tribute parade. Can you tell us more about the costumes?"

"It was all Chrona really," I say. "I just put on the outfit when they told me too. I had no idea it would burn."

"Were you frightened?"

"I was startled for a second, but I soon realized I wasn't being hurt."

"Clever girl" Sees nodded, "Most people would've just freaked out and jumped off the speeder. So…what was your life like back home, did you have a job, anything that helped out our lovely audience?"

There is no audience, other than the recording equipment. Perhaps they'll add sounds of a crowd later. "No…not really," I say. "I haven't had a chance to contribute much yet."

"You may still get that chance," said Sees. "You're a pretty one, got any boys back home?"

I shrug again. I could throw down the list of the four or so people I'd had sex with, but I figured that wasn't necessary. "Not really," I say. "I've had a few relationships, there's one great guy I've been hanging around with, but I wouldn't say I'm in any sort of serious relationship." That had been for Galen, if he was watching. I wish I could have seen his face, it would've been funny.

"Well, if you go out there and win these games you can have all the men you want, I'm sure," said Sees, with a wink, "Including yours truly. So, finally, the Force Games. You got a great score with the judges. What's your secret? Your strategy?"

"I don't have a secret," I say, "I just did something a little different is all. I'm not in bad shape, I can run pretty fast. My strategy is to stay alive."

"That's what it really comes down to, isn't it," Sees said. "One last question. You volunteered in the place of your sister. What would cause you to make that sacrifice? What were you thinking? You must love her very much."

"I was thinking that if I left instead of her, I had a better chance of coming home to our mother and family," I said.

"You've got a great chance," said Sees. "Thanks for talking with us. Kara Evenstern every-"

"Oh, I forgot one thing," I said, standing. "Chrona told me to show you this." I twirled on my toes, and my dress billowed out, revealing precious blue stones stitched into the lining. "It's to represent water, which we find in the sand, like in moisture farming."

"Cute," said Sees, "But the broadcast has already cut off. Get out of here, kid."

…

Over dinner, I press Osca for her honest opinion on my interview. She finally says I gave pretty standard answers, and was sullen and antisocial. "However, remember what Vaynich said," she tells me, "Boring might work to your advantage. You've drawn way too much attention to yourself already."

I don't force myself to watch the other interviews. They might give me an advantage, but I feel like there's little helpful information to learn from them at this point. I've looked over the other tributes enough.

Instead, I try going for a walk. The Tribute academy is largely deserted. I finally realize why when a squad of Stormtroopers escorts me to my room. Apparently I'm supposed to be confined there till they come for me tomorrow.

For better or worse, it begins tomorrow. The Force Games begin tomorrow. It seems like so long ago that I left Tatooine. I wonder if I will see it again. My victory seemed so likely some days previous, but now reality settles in. I will probably die. All I can do is do my damnedest to survive.

Shouldn't be anything new for me.

For sleep, I change into a long, loose white shirt that hangs off me almost like a dress. Back on Tatooine I used to always sleep in my shirt and trousers, so I had been experimenting with Coruscant's new wardrobe options each night. Each and every one seemed overly vulnerable and impractical.

This was no exception. I tossed and turned and rolled. I could usually turn off my mind like snapping my fingers (actually it was more like looking away from a light then flipping a switch), but not tonight.

I leave my room, going to get some water. On my way, I feel a breeze. The door to the balcony is open. I spy a boy crouched against the gray chrome wall. Perrin.

This week passed so fast, I never even attempted to make any alliances. Other people, other teenagers especially, were stupid, but in the Force Games they could mark the difference between life and death.

I walk out to join him, lean against the balcony. The cool breeze whips right up my bare legs. "It's cold."

"Yeah," he says.

"So…tomorrow, huh?" I ask.

"You're looking forward to it I'm sure," he sighs.

"I want it over with, if that's what you mean," we lapse into silence. I reach out with him in my mind's eye; try to feel his energy, like I can with Galen and my mother. I'm surprised at what I've found.

He hates me. Not a vague dislike or general irritation. Full rage flares beneath his expression. I can't even begin to imagine what that would feel like, to feel without reaching into another's mind that is. That kind of intensity is beyond me.

"Have you ever killed anyone before?" I asked.

He shakes his head. "I hear the first one is the hardest."

"They're all about the same," I say. "You have to go for the vitals and…oh, that's not what you meant, is it?"

He says nothing.

"Have you ever…" I try to think about how to phrase my words, "Wanted to kill somebody?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"You," he looks right at me (if the breeze was still having its way he might have just been looking up my dress; ah well, I could use that too).

"Mind if I ask why?" I ask. "I have no idea who you are, really."

"You wouldn't remember, would you," he said. "We were moisture farmers, my parents and me, just out of down. It was a dull life, a hard life, but it was ours and it was great. Then one day they came, out of the desert. Men on swoops. We thought they were sand people, they had the wrappings. But they carried blasters and knives. They'd come for our water, our speeder our supplies. They took it all, when my father protested they shot him, left him lying there with a smoldering crater in his chest. My mother too, when she fought back as they tore at her clothes. Me, I was useless, only twelve. They took everything. As they left I went for one of them, one of _you_. She beat me into the dirt and left me bleeding there, but not before I'd torn open her mask. She was you."

I remembered that raid, now. It was back when I'd been new with the gang, before impersonating sand people went out of vogue. It had been a particularly sloppy one. The family had been supposed to be gone. Instead they wound up dead. I hadn't bothered to kill the boy. He'd been harmless.

"I can see it in your eyes," there is no tone in his voice, nothing to portray his emotions. "You're going to say you are sorry, or point out how you spared me. Don't. I don't care. You stole my _life_."

"No," I say finally, "You're still here. And for the last two years, while you were doing whatever you were doing…"

"I worked at my step-grandfather's cantina," he says. "He was fair, but it's not like he cared about me…"

"You must have had plenty of chances to give up and end it all, but you didn't," I say_. _"That tells me one little thing."

"An important thing?"

"The only important thing. You want to live. And that's something we have in common."

I reach out slowly and touch his cheek. He doesn't even acknowledge it.

I show my teeth. "See you tomorrow.

**End of Part One**


	7. Chapter 6

**Part Two: The Games**

Chapter six:

Sleep must have come to me, because I am woken as the sun rises. They rush me downstairs, to a speeder, by speeder to the hanger, and by hanger to a Star Destroyer. Back the way I came.

Before I enter the shuttle, Osca, Vaynich and my prep team are there to greet me. Each of my preps wishes me good luck. Osca gives me a hug, tells me she's rooting for me or Perrin.

Vaynich pulls me aside. "The supplies, the only supplies you'll get, weapons and food and such, are out in the main area," he tells me. "Don't go for them. They're drawing you into a massacre. Run. Find shelter, water and food, and pick off the easy ones when you have the safest chances."

"I know," I say. But I smile at him. It's odd how a simple manipulation of facial muscles seems to set people at ease. I think it works.

On the Star Destroyer, I'm placed in a cell. They don't call it a cell, but that's what it is: a blank metal square of a room. Time passes. I pace, I sit, I sleep. I do some strengthening exercises. The ship is moving. I figure we're in hyperspace.

Eventually they come for me. The Stormtroopers move me into another room. They wait at the door. This time the room is furnished, and occupied. "Hello Kara," says Chrona.

"Hello," I said. "What are you doing here?"

"Sending you off," he says.

"Why?"

"I felt we had a sort of connection, you know, like a friendly one."

"Well," I said, "We don't. We're strictly…professional."

"Whatever," Chrona sighed. I can see the decision in his manner to stop even trying. "Here is your clothing for the games." He gives me a box.

There's a privacy screen, but I ignore it for old time's sake. The clothing is very functional, quality material. I get standard socks and undergarments, and pull on tan pants that are practical for movement, but still accentuate my hips. I put on a black tank top, and a thick black jacket with gold-colored buttons. My boots are black as well.

"One last bit. They found this in your cast off clothing. I thought I might send it with you." Chrona reaches out and hands me something. It's a small brown piece of wood, with the symbol of my gang etched into it.

Galen's keepsake; I had completely forgotten it. "Oh, thank you," I try to make my voice portray earnestness.

"You're welcome, dear girl," Chrona beams. "Carry that with pride. If it makes any difference, between you and Perrin, I'm rooting for you."

"Me too," I say, and allow him to give me an awkward hug.

There is a room beyond this one, where a pod, almost like a small lift, is set into the wall. The door hisses open. I step in without another word. The hatch slides shut, I settle back against the soft upholstery. It smells like soap.

Through the window, I see the Imperial technicians making a last check on their instruments. Chrona gives me a little wave goodbye. They press the button.

My stomach drops. The room disappears, as I am propelled into space.

Beyond my window, my world becomes black and filled with stares. I am weightless, motionless yet spinning. The stars move around me. The Star Destroyer flashes past above me. A pale green orb dominates my vision. It's getting bigger.

My pod heats up, regardless of climate controls, as I plunge through the planet's atmosphere. The soft lining inflates, enveloping me in a protective cocoon. Clouds rush past. Below I see a green bed, and then I'm through it, smashing and tearing through trees, till I finally land. My parachute falls gently to the earth somewhere behind my pod

This is a forest planet. Trees dominate the surroundings, huge trees, and grass and plants decorate rich brown earth. It could be worse.

At least I'm right side up, which is more than I can say for most of the pods nearby. They form a rough circle around the clearing. At the center of the clearing is a metal structure, almost like a huge horn. In, atop, and around it are heaped boxes and bags. We can't tell what's inside, but the racks of weapons are easily recognizable, silver blades glittering in the sunlight.

"Fifty. Forty-nine. Forty-eight."

An emotionless recording fills my pod. The seventy-fourth Force Games are beginning. My head is still reeling from the descent. I try to steady myself, focus.

"Thirty five. Thirty four."

I can't see anyone else through their pods, I wonder if they're in better or worse shape than I. I don't count the pods, but I am sure there are fifty altogether, mine included.

"Seventeen. Sixteen."

I'm going to run, I tell myself. Don't hesitate. Just get out of here. Just like Vaynich said. But the horn is so tempting. The packs of food and bottled water. The glimmering knives each look like my new best friend.

"Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One."

The front door of the pod pops off with a hiss of compressed air, falling to the dirt in front of me. The scent of trees and their needles fills my nostrils.

No time to hesitate, we've begun. I vault out of my metal pod. Twigs snap beneath my boots. I have time, I can make it, I can grab myself a knife. But suddenly I realize they're all around me. The tributes. It's chaos.

There is running and the screaming of fifty kids, children really, from all across the galaxy. Some bound off into the woods, while others go for the Horn. Fen is among the first, he goes for the weapons rack. He spins, and somebody's head goes flying. First casualty.

I've taken too long. The massacre has begun. I loop around toward the woods, but the shiny silver boxes are so tempting, so close to reach. In front of me, a tubby Gamorrean brings his axe down on a little Bothan. Blood splatters the ground.

A lanky Correllian boy loops past me, toting a backpack. He slices at me with his knife; I jump back out of his way. Suddenly the shaft of a metal arrow goes through his eye, the red tip forcing its way out the back of his head. He sprawls in the dirt.

I snatch up his pack and knife, as ahead of me the tall Wookie male snaps a kid's back over his knee. He roars at me, and I retreat for the forest. I glimpse Perrin, he meets my eyes from the other side of the clearing, then he disappears into the foliage of the tree line.

As I pass a pod, a four-armed alien comes at me with a sort of cleaver. I block it's trajectory with a swing of my backpack, and lash out with my knife, slicing deep into one of his arms. I kick out, my leg is long and strong, and his egg-like body rebounds off the metal pods exterior, as my knife leaves my hand. The blade goes in right between his eyes.

I wrench it out as I look back. Fen and a human girl are choking the life out of the male Twi'lek. His lekku lay severed in the dirt, blood pumps from his head.

The cleaver is lost in the dirt. I don't waste time looking for it, it's definitely time for me to escape. I take up my knife, and run, slipping my pack onto my back.

The trees blur past. I jump many a large root. Somebody rustles the underbrush up ahead, and I careen to a stop against a nearby tree. It's a little human boy, around twelve. He's got a thermos. No idea how he got that. He screams and makes to leave.

I take a running jump, and land on his back, slamming him into the dirt. Blood spurts out onto my hands and sleeves, as I ram my knife into the side of his neck.

Two down. I must've seen four or five more killed by the other tributes.

Climbing off the boy, I pick up his water bottle. It's empty. It goes into my pack. My knife goes into my boot. My hands are all sticky now. I wish I had a way to wash them.

I'm still too close to the horn and the other tributes for my liking. I begin to jog.


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter seven:

If I came upon another tribute right now, would I attack first or would I try to evade detection? I'm trying to decide. As I tromp through the woods, I have yet to see another tribute.

It's almost as though I'm alone with nature, as if the Horn and the dead bodies around it no longer exist. I'm not sure how far I've walked from them, only that I've left them behind. Time blends together in my solitude.

Inside my pack, I had found a fire-starting kit, a loop of twine, a small bottle of white pills, a box of military rations and a towel. Add that to an empty water bottle and a knife. It was a start. It was good knife, but it wasn't the same as some of the axes and cleavers the other tributes would be packing. I had food though, and drugs (though I hadn't trusted the pills enough to try one). What I really needed, if my parched mouth was any indication, was water.

I keep traveling, albeit at a much more leisurely pace now. I am always on the lookout for the others, but I don't see any other tributes. I hear birdsong and see some small animals. My stomach rumbles. I could try and set one of those snares I learned, but I didn't have the need. Instead I nibble on some of my rations. They're tasteless, but filling, and chewing gives me something to do.

It takes me a moment to realize the sound I hear is rushing water. We don't get a lot of that on Tatooine. I hurry through the undergrowth to find a river a few yards wide. The water is clear blue. I figure it might not be clean, but I can use my fire starting kit to start a flame to heat and sterilize it. Flame might draw in other tributes…but after all this walking killing somebody might make a nice change of pace.

I creep down the river bank, and stretch out my hands to brush the blue flow. It's cool. With it I'm able to wipe the last of the dried blood from my hands (the part my saliva didn't catch). I go for my bottle.

But as I do, the ground gives way beneath my feet. The soft brown earth crumbles, and I go right into the river. I try to jump out, but the current is faster than it looks and I'm already swept under.

Water fills my ears, my eyes, my mouth. I can feel just a little in my lungs.

I grab at a root, but it gives way. I struggle, kick my legs, grasp with my arms, but the force of the current retaliates by slamming me into debris. A rock hits my shoulder, then my thigh, then the back of my head. There is red in the water, but my blood is swept away in a second as well.

My bottle is gone, and my pack as well. My heavy boots drag me down. I'm going to die, I realize, it's a matter of seconds. On Tatooine people talk about drowning almost wistfully, but they're missing the point. Too much water or too little, you're dead either way.

I can glimpse the edge, the bank. I stretch for it. I focus. I kick; I pull myself through the water.

Either the current is slower, or my power increases. Either way, I'm propelled forward. My head breaks the surface, I grab handfuls of dirt and grass, tear them both up, but the ledge is secure enough. I pull myself up out of the river onto dry ground.

I lay there for an instant, taking in deep breaths. I spit out a few mouthfuls of water. At least I'm not thirsty any more.

My clothing is soaked. I shrug out of my jacket. My stuff is gone, swept away, my food and my pills. All I have now is my knife. That and Galen's pendant. A cool breeze blows and a long shiver goes down my spine.

I wish I could start a fire, for warmth this time, but my starter-kit is at the bottom of that river. Instead, I peel off my wet clothes and lay them out in the sun. I sit there shivering for what seems like hours, in only my undergarments, clutching my knife.

At least if someone attacked me, my exposure might distract them. I'd used that one before.

I sense a buzz, a disturbance in the air. I look up to see a grey floating metal disk. The droid hovers for a moment, its cameras focused on me in all my shivering glory, before it moves on.

The Games are a televised event. Stationary cameras are hidden all over the arena, but they are joined by some camera droids as well, which fly out to get even better angles on the action. I'm sure somewhere in the forest there is something more interesting than the water dripping off my nose. I can almost hear the screaming.

Eventually, night begins to fall. I put my clothes back on (they've mostly dried), and move into the underbrush. I can see a trail of smoke in the moonlight, and the dull orange glow of fire ahead. I taste the smell of meat on the air.

Food and warmth. I head that direction. If it's an attended fire, I can always turn around and run.

I move cautiously, my boots off to prevent noise, my knife rests in my palm.

The fire illuminates the trees. I peer through the underbrush.

Nope.

There are six of them. Six tributes around the fire, where a couple small rodents are cooking. Tough looking tributes, with packs and sharp objects in their possession. One in particular, a lanky blonde human female, looks familiar. There's a metal quarterstaff across her knees.

I sense an allegiance between these people. They aren't trying to kill each other after all. I might test my skills against any one of them, but I didn't trust my chances against six other tributes.

I slink back, away from the warmth and the smell of meat. I'll find somebody else's fire and supplies to pillage. I turn away, and stop in my tracks.

I'm standing right in front of Fen. He drops his armful of wood, and raises his metal bow and arrow. I raise my hands slowly, defensively.

"I would ask you to drop that knife," says the Zabrak. "But from the look in your eyes I'm guessing you'd rather keep in your hand, even while I put this arrow through your skull."


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter eight:

Fen can guess at my character, but not well enough. I'd do anything to survive, to live. That was the meaning of my life, to continue living. All else was contradictory and superfluous. I'd even put down my knife if that was what it took. I just don't think that would assure my survival.

"We have allied ourselves," he says, gesturing at the campfire behind me. "To eliminate the competition."

"I assumed as much," I say.

"We were wondering…" He smiles awkwardly, "I mean, well since you're here, would you be willing to join us?"

I consider this. If I say no, it's unlikely I'll survive the coming altercation. "As a matter of fact," I say, "Yes."

We lower our weapons in unison.

"Then come and meet the tributes," Fen says.

He leads me back to the fire. The other's look at me with curiosity. "Our latest ally, Kara Evenstern," Fen introduces me; "I vouch for her worth."

The blonde human girl looks me over. She stands a several inches taller than me. "I saw you kill that Toong back at the Horn," she says. "How many others have you killed."

"During the Games, one other, a human male," I say, meeting her gaze.

"Fair enough," she says. "That brings our groups kill count up to eleven. My name is Arma, Coruscant tribute."

"I didn't know Coruscant even had a reaping," I said.

"They get selected from time to time," she shrugged, "My dumb luck I guess."

"The only one who's not here by chance is you, Kara," Fen tells me.

I take my place at the fire. Along with Fen and Arma, I meet the male and female Cereans (intelligent pointy headed creatures): Epsant and Kas Modic, a brother and sister no less. There's Twill, a weedy Rodian boy with a belt of throwing stars. There's also a male human, a broad shouldered lad whose name I don't recall, and a tough looking Aqualish who refuses to speak.

I'm given a few sips of water from someone's canteen, and a flank of whatever mammal they caught. The meat is burned and black on the outside, cool and bloody in the middle. I gnaw every bite, savoring the energy the food will give me. While eating, I tell them about killing the other boy, and about losing my supplies, although I alter the story of my incident in the river greatly so as to not make myself seem grossly incompetent.

I can't help but thinking that, despite our allegiance, talking and laughing while we eat our meat, once the time comes and the tide turns, we'll each be cutting each other's throats. I don't bring this up though.

As it gets late, we debate setting watches while we sleep. I'm not given the opportunity; perhaps they suspect my intention to murder each of them while they sleep. I don't give them the chance to do the same to me, and sleep very lightly indeed. I still fill rested and refreshed come sunrise, however. That's when the Imperial anthem shakes the birds from the trees with its blare.

A cool, computerized female voice speaks, issued from thousands of hidden speakers. "Attention tributes. So dawns the second day of the Force Games. Seventeen of you are dead. The fallen are as follows, in chronological order. The male tribute from Naboo. The male tribute from Correlia." She continues until the list is done. Seventeen dead, thirty-three living. That's thirty-two people I have to outrun, outthink and simply murder. No pressure.

"There are no more announcements," says the voice. "Good luck." She is gone.

"So," Fen asks, as the unofficial leader of our company. "What should we do today?"

"Other than continue to explore," says Epsant.

"And kill all we meet," Kas finishes.

"What does the latecomer have to say?" Arma looks to me with a smirk.

"Well," I think briefly. "I think we could go back to horn. Each of us grabbed something and got the hell out of there, right? All fifty of us. There may be some food left. It's worth a look. Also, it's an easily defensible position. Other tributes are going to have the same idea, and flock to that area. We can take them out, and it will be faster than sweeping the forest for every last one of them."

"That," said Twill, "Is actually a really good idea."

"It's certainly worth a look," says the human boy.

"Let's head over there, as see what we see." Fen agrees.

We mobilize and move out. We travel in a line, led by Fen, mostly in silence. The river turned me around enough I'm not even sure this is the right way to the Horn.

We pause to rest at a stream, refilling our water stores. It's really only a trickle of water, and beyond it the wood becomes much dryer, more dead and prickly. Compared to the others, I have very little supplies to call my own at this point. Fen orders us to quiet down, and covertly directs our attention. There's a figure perched on a rock, some yards away, hidden by undergrowth. The twins move off into the forest in the opposite direction. They're going to flank him.

I squint. I think I recognize the boy. It's Perrin.

The five of us move toward him, acting as though we've not recognized his hiding place (he is well hidden).

"That's the boy from your planet, isn't he," Fen whispers and I nod.

"Is he dangerous?" he asks.

I shake my head. "Shouldn't be any trouble."

Suddenly, it's on. Kas and Epsant charge out of the woods behind Perrin, waving their blades. Startled, he leaps from the rock and sprawls in the dirt. But he's up and running in second. Twill hurls a throwing star; it ricochets off the rock to land in the grass.

We pursue. Fen closes the gap; he's a much faster runner than Perrin; or even me for that matter. Realizing he'll be caught in but a moment, Perrin takes the first route to escape he can see. He leaps, taking hold of a low hanging branch. With impressive skill and tact, Perrin clambers up one of the massive trees, shimmying and jumping. He is soon far above our heads.

The seven of us surround the tree. It may have been the only avenue left to him, but Perrin certainly hasn't made a good decision. He's essentially cornered. Unless he climbs and leaps into a neighboring tree, in which case we can follow him along the ground. He's trapped, and he knows it, if his spitting at us is anything to go on.

"So…" says Epsant, swinging his cleaver into the tree. "We chop it down."

"Not sure that would work very well," says Kas. "I could start a fire."

Twill shook his green little head, "I don't think that's a good idea either."

"He's got to come down sometime," said the human boy tribute (whose name I didn't remember).

"I'd rather not wait that long," says Arma, "He's only one tribute, and we have better things to do."

Fen takes up his bow. He strings one of those metal arrows and fires. He's a better shot than I expected, but the arrow still goes sailing right past Perrin. His second arrow does as well. I really think the third bolt looks like it's going to take him out, but it almost twists in midair at the last second and goes deep into the trunk of the tree.

Fen lowers his bow and goes to collect his other two arrows. "I'd rather not waste all my arrows," he says, "Not when it'd be easier to just smoke him out by sending one of us up the tree."

For some reason, everyone looks at me. "Your planet's tribute, your turn," Twill shrugs.

"Fine," I say. I back up and take a running leap. I catch a thick branch with two arms, and hoist myself up. I crouch there for a second before stepping to the next branch up. It's not long till the ground is far below.

I've never climbed a tree before. This tree seems easy, thankfully. The branches are sturdy, for the most part, and close together. It's climbing a ladder; a twisting bark-lined ladder.

I can see Perrin crouched above me, his back against the tree. He's got something in his hands. I pull out my knife, and almost lose my footing when I realize we're not alone.

There's someone perched in the next tree over. A little ball of brown fur, a small female wookie. I've seen her before. She's motioning to Perrin, mouthing words at him. The handle of my knife feels good in my palm. It's only a few yards straight up. I could probably reach Perrin from here.

I throw my knife. But Perrin isn't my target. The blade buries itself in the wookie girl's chest up to the hilt, turning her brown fur red. She tumbles from the tree to land in a heap on the ground below, bouncing off branches on the way.

Perrin meets my eyes. He looks astonished, scandalized, and just a little grateful that he wasn't my target. He holds up his hand and drops something. A little black capsule falls right past me.

It hits the ground and explodes. I'm not kidding. I wasn't expecting that. A blast of flame roils up. The tributes scatter, but the unnamed boy, who's closest to the blast, goes spinning away, his whole right side on fire. He screams in terrible pain as he tries and fails to expunge the flame eating into his flesh.

My perch, once satisfyingly secure, lurches. The explosion took a chunk out of the tree trunk itself. It shifts, tipping. Perrin already escapes, jumping into a nearby tree, as the tree finally topples.

As I'm propelled toward the ground, I jump away from the trunk for another tree. I sprawl over a thick branch, catch it with my gut and tip over forward. I slam into the next branch, and grab a handful of greenery, which slows my fall as it rips away and I land in the dirt.

I breathe in smoke. The wood here is dry and the fire is spreading. Several trees are already burning like torches. I limp away from the tree only to have a burning log slam down in my path.

Turning, I can see no other tributes, they must have fled. Something slams into my head from behind and I go sprawling.

I get up on hands and knees, spitting out dead leaves. A sharp toe drives into my side. I roll away and scramble to my feet.

Arma twirls her staff before me. "Traitor," she says. "I saw you. You had your chance; you didn't throw your knife. It was a trap. At least one of us is dead."

Which reminds me, my knife is in that dead wookie, wherever she is? I'm unarmed. "I killed another tribute," I say.

"You swore you-"

"There's only one winner," I say. The flames are all around us now, lighting our faces.

She growls deep in her throat and attacks, but I'm ready this time. I duck the arc of her staff, and twist to the side to avoid its other end. The tip still jabs into my abdomen.

I snatch a branch from the ground; it looks like a club (hopefully). Arma's staff comes down and the dead wood breaks in two, but I still spin, slamming the rest of the branch into the side of her head.

Arma falls back briefly, but quickly clears her head. I fall back, reaching a large tree, one of the less flaming ones. It should suit me.

Arma charges. I catch her metal staff with my palms and grab it. Using her momentum to turn, I jump and kick off the tree, twisting to land behind her, still holding her weapon.

Driving my boots into the back of her legs again and again, I yank back on her weapon, pressing it into her neck.

She fights of course. Her elbows and heels slam into me. Her nails grasp and scratch, but I'm able to force them away from my face. She kicks with strength, but I can hear her gagging. I press harder, twisting and forcing.

It takes minutes, perhaps, but finally she subsides. I let Arma's limp body fall to the dirt. I feel incredibly weak. My hands play across her neck, her wrist. Nothing. Another kill.

I stumble forward, leaning on her staff. There is flame all around me. I'm surrounded. I cough as I take in lungs full of thick black smoke. I try and force myself not to breathe.

Until my vision goes as black as the smoke.


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter nine:

I don't expect to wake up. Not in this life, not in the arena

But to my surprise, I do.

I'm lying on a mat of soft grass. Above me, see a roof of woven wood. I'm in a small hut. My head aches. My wounds are dressed, my cuts bandaged.

Who would do such a thing? In the games, any tribute I found dying of smoke inhalation would get a knife in the back, not a patch on the arm. This hut as well, no tribute would have the time of skill to build it. Was there someone else on the playing field? As far as I knew the arena was populated with tributes only.

I try and sit up. My ribs ache too, and I cough heavily.

"You ought to take it easy," says a voice, a woman's voice. Something shifts ahead of me, I squint and she swims into focus.

She's a tribute, judging by her youth and her plain, functional, dark clothing. Her skin is pale blue, her eyes reddish, and her lekku wind around her neck and shoulders. Angular and well endowed, she has a body to rival every other Twi'lek dancer and whore I remembered from Tatooine.

She holds a homemade spear, a wooden shaft sharpened to a point.

"How are you feeling?" she asks, concern in her eyes.

"I've been better, but I've been worse," I reply. "Did you do this for me?"

"I found you close to death," she said, "I brought you here, healed you. I was training as a medic back on…back on Ryloth."

"Why?" I asked. "I'm your enemy. We all are. I would have left me in the dirt, maybe even finished the job."

"I came close," she admits. "But I've realized something. I want to go home. But, I can't hope to outrun, outthink, out murder them all alone. I need an ally. I chose you."

"Why me?"

"You were there in my path, and you were also injured enough I could control you, make you hear my piece before you pulled an axe on me."

"I am…" I search for the words, search for the expression to put on my face. "Thank you. But I want to win too. What if I refuse?"

She twirls her weapon in her hand. The sharpened woodened tip presses again my throat. "Then I kill you."

My mind is all foggy, but I can tell she means it. Also, I was pretty sure I'd lost grace with Fen and his gang, if they were even alive. I could use an ally. I could always kill her later, when we were the only tributes left.

"Alright," I said. "I could use some help too. You obviously know what you're doing medically. Let's do it."

"Great," a wide grin lights up her face. "If you betray me, I'll kill you."

"And if you betray me, I'll kill you twice," I say.

"Good," she says. "You need a little more rest, I think. You're not done healing. My name is Rayne. I'm the tribute from Ryloth." As if I couldn't tell.

"Mine's Kara," I said. "Tatooine."

"It's hot there isn't it?"

"Yeah," I say, and I lay back down. "Sorry I lost all my supplies."

"It's okay," she says, "I stole the pack off that girl with the staff. I'll get you something to eat. I figure I can share since it was your kill."

This girl really could be just what I needed.

Rayne brings me some dried fruit and nuts from Arma's pack. I also drink a whole bottle of water, which is even better. I'd been parched.

Rayne talks to me, answering a few more of my questions while I slowly eat my handful of trail mix.

"What is this place?" I ask. "This hut and such?"

"It's weird," she says. "It was already here. A huge wooden city built up in the trees, with walkways and awnings and huts, even an auditorium and dining area. All deserted, all in good shape. I think we're the only tributes to have discovered it. I think it makes a great hiding place and headquarters."

"Yeah," I muse, "Why would it be here?"

Rayne shrugged. "I figure some primitive people lived here, and got relocated when the Empire picked this area for the games."

"Right," I said. "Did you make that spear yourself?"

"Yeah," she nodded. "I made three of them. I didn't grab anything at the Horn. I just sharpened these with a rock. The city has plenty of shelves and closets but no food or weapons or utensils. They must've cleared it all out in order to make our lives more difficult."

"I've been unconscious for how long?"

"A night and a day," says Rayne.

"Who else died?"

She has to think about this for a second. "Five more," she says. "There are twenty-eight living. Probably less than that by now."

"Yeah, probably," I say.

Rayne leaves to check her snares, and almost against my will, I drift back to sleep.

As dawn comes, three more tributes have joined the ranks of the deceased. None of them are children I recognize. Perrin, Fen, Twill and the twins are still alive. I grill Rayne on the subject, and she promises none of them died while they were sleeping.

That's good. I want to kill each of them by myself. Not that it matters.

Before the day is out, I'm up and about. I'm healing well. Rayne and I eat some cold meat she caught, we don't risk a fire. It might prompt unwanted attention.

"I'd like to do something," says Rayne. "Just sitting here I feel like I'm waiting for death to find me. Not that I want to kill anybody, I'm not sure I could. But I'd be happy to help you so you can take down some people."

"Did you find anything?" I ask. "While you were scouting around."

Rayne smiles "Thought you'd never ask. That crew you were running with, they're the most dangerous team in the Games, I figure. I found the Horn. Fen and his gang have set up there, got all their supplies together."

"And?"

"And," she says. "We've got fire. Staff girl's old flint and stuff. We burn their supplies. Means they'll have to hunt."

"Means we can hunt them," I say. "Or someone can hunt them, at least."

"Yeah," said Rayne. "I'll show you the area.

We trek through the tree fortress. It really is like a primitive city, the Horn isn't so far away from its nethermost reach. We descend to the forest floor using a hidden ladder carved into one of the trunks.

I feel much more vulnerable down here. Both of us carry spears. She's got nothing on me, but Rayne isn't bad at stealth. She can move quietly.

Finally we peer at the Horn itself, hanging back behind a screen of fronds. The open pods we arrived in still protrude from the ground, most left where they landed, the plush interior gutted and the chrome metal skin vandalized with anti-imperial messages smeared in mud and berry juice. A few of the pods have been dragged over to the mouth of the Horn to provide cover, and to better be experimented on, as tributes dove into their mechanical workings for more weapons and potential food sources. All the bags and boxes have been gathered within the metal structure. The gang of tributes hangs around it. Fen, Twill, the Cerean twins. Fortunately they don't see us, and I've seen everything I need.

We creep away, all the way back to our hideout.

"So, you think we can do it?" Rayne asks. "You think we can really hit them?"

"Yeah," I say. "We just need to lead them away."

"So who's going to start the fire?" she asks.

"Both of us," I say.


End file.
